


raised on the edge of the devil's backbone

by Aimerz



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Feelings, M/M, and mine too, and yuri adores him, for your hearts, he deserves lots of hugs, i have a lot of feelings about yuri, i love yuri ok, ok so maybe not angst but, otabae is best bae, proud victuri parents, some otayuri in the end, there is some sadness?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-12 03:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9052615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aimerz/pseuds/Aimerz
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky is only a fifteen year old, after all.
[or; a story of struggling, growing up and being reborn through an angry teenager's eyes.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> so I really love Yuri Plisetsky, and I have a lot of feelings about this beautiful, wonderful boy. 
> 
> this is my first contribution to the yoi fandom. I esteemed it would be somewhere close to 4k and god knows how turned into this 9k baby. Yuri Plisetsky deserves as much. 
> 
> btw i admittedly listened mostly to JJ's theme while writing this, so yeah. 
> 
> enjoy!

He lands a perfect quadruple Salchow.

 

His skates glide smoothly against the ice until he comes to a stop, wiping sweat from his forehead with a gloved hand.

 

It might be a smile—that slight tug of the corners of Yuri’s mouth; the barest tilt of his lips into something that isn’t remotely close to a scowl. After all, his body is finally getting accustomed to the new flexibility that coaxes his limbs into jumping high, high, _high_ ; arms raised above his head as he tries to reach for new heights. The lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes are almost nothing compared to the joy that courses through his body and has Yuri staring at his hands with fondness and gratitude.

 

He’s worked so hard; pushed his body towards dangerous limits and points of no return, but—

 

It’s not enough, is it?

 

* * *

 

 

Training under Lilia Baranovskaya is no joke.

 

Not that coaching lessons under Yakov aren’t quite the Spartan regime already, but the prima needs only to raise a single eyebrow to have Yuri Plisetsky, Russian Tiger and one of his country’s top skaters rushing forward, pushing harder—grace and beauty a veil wrapped taut against his body.

 

She’s an empress that does not back down from Yuri’s challenging, raging eyes. He finds himself crawling his way to the top from the very basics of ballet until she’s satisfied with what she sees. Once he’s back on the ice it doesn’t take him long to _feel_ the differences; his body belongs to him even more than it did a mere weeks ago and Lilia nods her approval, arms crossed in front of her chest, and commands him to begin his program from the beginning.

 

(Lilia Baranovskaya is radiates an aura so _intense_ it takes a while for Mila to dare approach her, asking with a surprisingly respectful demeanor to be taught some of the more difficult tricks to enhance her skating)

 

He’s soaring, one night; a combination of a quadruple toe loop and a triple toe loop which Yuri’s sure he’s nailed (he lands it nine out of ten times) when the sound of heels clicking loudly against the floor interrupts his train of thought. Yuri doesn’t waste time skating to the edge of the rink, facing Lilia, ready to hear and take the criticism without flinching.

 

“Those jumps were average at best,” Lilia announces, arms crossed in front of her chest. Brutal honesty drips from words she doesn’t bother sugar-coating, and Yuri grits his teeth. “You won’t be getting anywhere flailing around like that.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,”

 

Lilia doesn’t let him practice a single jump until he manages a step sequence that the ballerina can approve of. Everyone’s done for the night, so Yuri has the entire rink to himself. And when the steps sequences are not enough (it never is) Lilia makes him go back to her ballet studio to practice the stupid basics; spins and jumps and _your leg is looking sloppy, Yuri. Again!_  

 

He bends his wrists towards his chest, one crossed in front of the other, fingers poised and elongated towards the ceiling. His feet glide across the ice, one knee bent and the other holding the weight of his leg mid-air. When he slows to a stop, Yuri finds Lilia regarding him with cold, sharp eyes and her index finger tapping against her bottom lip.

 

_What am I doing wrong?_

Panic surges up his throat, bitter and heavy and _I am better than this. If I want to surpass Victor I need to—_

Images of Katsuki Yuuri invade his mind; flashbacks of last year’s finals at Sochi and some sneaky memories about the banquet afterwards. Katsuki Yuuri, whose technical scores waver, with quads that Yuri mastered in a matter of _months_ —and yet. There’s something undeniably enthralling about Katsudon’s skating. It’s not just about his step sequences (quite otherworldly, in Mila’s words); Yuuri’s strengths lie amidst something Yuri cannot place, and the pig is _still_ hell bent on calling himself ‘another skater of the bunch’.

 

Yuri is going to kick his ass in the Rostelcom Cup.

 

(He won’t bring himself to admit out loud that he’s been looking up to Katsuki Yuuri ever since he discovered his skating.)

 

“Yuri Plisetsky,” Lilia snaps, clapping her hands in order to get the blonde’s attention. He realizes she’s never been truly pleased with his skating, at all. “Stop trying to find your core in what you see in other people and think you lack. Your beauty as a prima ballerina lies within you. Only the strong ones can be reborn over and over. Now, _start from the beginning_.”

 

He’s never been completely pleased with his own skating, too. If only he could overcome the obstacles in front of him; _smash them into pieces_ , then, perhaps…

 

The only path ahead of him is the one in which he surges stronger. Yuri Plisetsky, fifteen years old, is going to break his body should that be the answer to end his setbacks. He’s going to rise to the top; he will surpass Victor; overwrite his stupid legacy, all while proving that between the two Yuri’s, he is the better one.

 

Their faceoff at the Onsen on Ice might have proved something different. However, that competition ended up being mostly for the sake of humoring Victor.

 

He’s quick to ditch the unkempt ponytail in order to trade it for a braided look. His bones and muscles complain the second he skates right back to the center of the ice rink, ready to become the phoenix Lilia expects him to be.

 

It’s not enough. Not yet.

 

If he wants to _prove_ himself to Victor—

 

Ice rushes down to meet him as he misses a landing, chest heaving against the cold, unforgiving surface.

 

* * *

 

 

“Six jumps in the second half? Don’t be silly, Yuri!” Yakov berates, trying to keep up with Yuri’s pace, three steps in front of him with his earphones plugged inside his ears. The tips of Yakov’s ears are tinted red. “You should be focusing on delivering a perfect free skate. Are you even sure you can pull it off?”

 

“JJ has a higher base score than mine with his quads alone,” The Russian skater whispers, fists balled at his sides. He doesn’t turn around to face him, choosing instead to train his gaze on the ice. “This is the only thing I can do to win.”

 

Yakov seems inclined to protest. However, Lilia places a firm hand over his shoulder, eyes steady and unwavering. “This is Yuri’s time to shine,” They can only trust the instincts he’s honed so far allow him to make the right decisions. He has to be able to build a path for himself. The scores of the previous skater are announced and the rink is enveloped in cheers and clapping and good luck wishes.

 

Yuri tunes them all out.

 

He doesn’t waste time making his way to the centre of the ice; shoulders squared and gaze held high. This is Yuri’s stage; the one he’s fought for tooth and nail—the one with a thin layer of blood and sweat, of restless, sleepless nights and sore muscles. Yuri Plisetsky is going to prove himself and scrub the smirk off JJ’s face with his fists.

 

The music begins.

 

Soaking in the intensity of the piece, Yuri launches into the first elements of the choreography, carrying himself like a beautiful, deadly ballerina. The first jump is over in a flurry; skates scraping against the ice and sweat dripping down his forehead. He glides smoothly, getting ready for the upcoming quad. A perfect step sequence, followed by an entrance to the jump that guarantees his success. It’s insanity and he’s very well aware of it—pushing six jumps onto the second half of his program. However, with Jean-Jacques Leroy’s four quads and Katsuki Yuuri’s knack for pulling off the unexpected, Yuri knows he needs to push yet another limit in order to win.

 

Six jumps? _Bring it_.

 

Anger fuels his movements; the dips and bows and spins of his body are driven by something dangerously akin to rage. Gritting his teeth, Yuri takes a deep breath and tries to soften his features; the second half draws closer and he has to do _better than this_. He won’t let JJ snatch away from him yet another victory. A combination jump follows and he nails it, landing lithely. However, Yuri cannot keep ignoring the way his throat clamps up every now and then, preventing oxygen from flowing into his lungs. The music speeds up, rising into a crescendo—Yuri’s program is about to finish.

 

And Katsuki Yuuri? The damned pig that stole Victor away from Russia?

 

He better be ready, because Yuri Plisetsky is a storm; an ever evolving monster made out of diamonds and hardened steel.

 

Arms stretched out at his sides, Yuri waits until the last notes of the piano die before collapsing on the ice, fingers curled and panting. He did it.

 

Victor Nikiforov’s era is over.

 

He can barely hear the cheering crowd over the roaring of his heart. The ice is cold but his blood is boiling, and he hasn’t been able to catch his breath. Carefully, gingerly, he stands up and meets his audience, mouth tilted slightly upwards. Strands of blonde hair fall out of the braided up-do, sticking to his forehead where sweat coats his skin.

 

He makes his way to the kiss and cry.

 

_199.87_

 

Yuri’s performance makes Lilia cry, and seeing his scores make her smile in a way the skater had never seen before; eyes crinkling with fondness that does not quite belong there. Pride swells in his chest momentarily, eating away doubts and fears that had been swirling low in his stomach for too long.

 

—why is Yuuri the first person he wants to show off his results to?

 

(He doesn’t let himself ponder too much on the issue. Being one of the skaters Yuri looks up too—it only makes sense, that he’d like to brag like a little kid, right?)

 

The Japanese skater enters the rink without paying him any mind, and there’s something in his face that sets off a couple of alarms in Yuri’s brain; soon enough it dawns on him. _Victor isn’t here_. He wants to yell at Yuuri for (possibly) depending on Victor’s presence to score a perfect free skate; it’s not like Yakov hadn’t been there to quell any doubts. However, deep down Yuri empathizes. He’d hoped for his short program to find its light with his grandfather there to help him channel his _agape_ , and without him…

 

Katsudon isn’t skating like his usual self; still graceful yet devoid of that _something_ that tugs at the Russian skater’s heartstrings; flubbing jumps and step sequences and Yuri Plisetsky is _mad_.

 

“Hang in there—!”

 

“Cheering for him now that you’ve secured a spot on the podium?”

 

_Of course_ it has to be JJ the one to put a damper over this moment. He should be grateful that Lilia Baranovskaya thinks of his violent tendencies as “unsophisticated” and “horrendous” or else—

 

“Shut up,” Yuri deadpans, walking past him.

 

Yuuri’s free skate is almost over, and Yuri only needs to throw one look at his face to _know_ it was not the performance it could have been. Yet, Katsudon stands oddly peaceful, exhausted, and glad to have finished his routine. Yuri clicks his tongue, wondering once again what; exactly, it is that Victor sees in him.

 

(Talent and potential, most likely. Yuri sees it too.)

 

The scores displayed onscreen do not belong to the man that dared to include a quadruple flip in his free skate during the Cup of China. Yakov is there with Yuuri, arms crossed in front of his chest. He doesn’t look pleased or dissatisfied; rather, the expression that sits on his features is empty and calculated.

 

This is not the way Yuri Plisetsky wants to beat the Japanese skater, who just managed to earn himself a ticket to the Grand Prix finals out of sheer luck. He scowls, earning a glare from Lilia and stomps away like the angry teenager he is. Partizan Hope blasts from the speakers and JJ’s free skate begins.

 

Yuri pays enough attention to discover that once again, wrecking his body and selling his soul to the devil isn’t enough.

 

_When will my efforts suffice?_

He grips the edge of his seat until his knuckles turn white, green eyes alight with smoldering, unyielding fire and weaves his way to the podium to have yet another silver medal placed around his neck.

 

* * *

 

 

“Yuri Plisetsky had the unforgettable eyes of a soldier,”

 

Otabek’s words make Yuri feel giddy on the inside. Finally, _finally_ someone recognizes in him an image different to those the media is going crazy about. _Yuri Plisetsky, Russian fairy, my ass_. Dumbfounded and cheeks red, he stands there, processing the skater’s words in his head and his gaze breaks into something softer, jagged edges and stone-cold walls melting into gratitude. He doesn’t recall any Otabek Altin from any of Yakov’s training camps; Yuri’s never really bothered with _remembering_ each and every person he comes across, and any impression left on him ten years ago was bound to fade.

 

However, he doesn’t regret it. He’s glad to have been able to meet Otabek (again) under such circumstances, the warm glow of the sunset fading behind them and all kinds of hostile intentions left back on the rink. Just two skaters from entirely different worlds finding each other in a middle point.

 

_A soldier, uh._

 

He’s tempted to smile, at least a little bit. It’s not as difficult to make his muscles coerce his mouth into a lopsided smirk as it is for him when he has to show himself proud and tall and _shining_ for the crowds during competitions. It is only because of Lilia’s nagging that Yuri has somehow improved and is now able to wear that awkward, lopsided smile of his made _just_ for the audience without disappearing five seconds afterwards.

 

(Now it only takes him _eight_ seconds to rush away. Well, a lot less if you take Otabek’s motorbike in consideration.)

 

Otabek smiles back; soft and powerful at the same time because he, too, is a soldier with his own wars and stories to tell on the ice. He offers Yuri one of his gloved hands, eyes trained and unwavering over his.

 

“Are you going to become my friend or not?” He asks, voice steady, as if it were the easiest, simplest thing in the entire _world_ —to offer the promise of friendship to a teenager that’s never allowed himself such opportunity.

 

“Yeah,” Yuri answers, and maybe his voice does break a little at the end, accompanied by a hint of tears glimmering, unshed, on his eyes. They shake hands firmly (they are soldiers after all), and Yuri takes a step back. “I would like that.”

 

The pale hues of the sunset melt until the sky is left an endless canvas of black and blue and stars. Yuri’s stomach decides to let out an unearthly growl in the middle of their shared peaceful moment. It’s loud and embarrassing, but Otabek only turns around and motions for Yuri to follow him down the steps and into the spot where he’d parked his motorcycle. He surprises Yuri once more by placing the helmet over his head with careful hands, swiftly securing it around his jaw.

 

Yuri takes his seat behind Otabek and suddenly he’s feeling self-conscious; nervous and fidgety because _where the hell is he supposed to put his hands_ and—oh. Right. He circles Otabek’s waist, just like he’d done in order to preserve his safety when they’d sped far, far away from his mob of fans. Back then he hadn’t noticed, focused only on the fading sound of their voices and the view of the streets. He grumbles something under his breath that Otabek doesn’t catch. The roar of the engine snaps him back to attention and mere seconds away they’re back on the road, Yuri’s voice a knot in his throat.

 

The ride is a short one; they hit a few curves every now and then, but Otabek seems to know where he’s going, so Yuri trusts his new _friend_ (it’ll take him a while to get used to that word) to lead them wherever he pleases.

 

There’s a little, cramped parking spot for motorcycles away from the main roads. Otabek stays two steps in front of Yuri, turning around every five seconds to make sure he’s still following, as if the Russian skater were to abandon him. First and foremost, they are now friends, and he’s not such a piece of shit. And second, he’s never been to Spain before. Yuri is not about to test his luck and crappy sense of direction and trust them to send him back to the hotel.

 

“Where are we going?” Yuri asks for the sake of, well, talking; eyeing the crowds with narrowed eyes. Yuri’s Angels have a god damned knack for tracking him with an utmost ease that will never cease to send chills down his spine.

 

“This café that I saw on TV once,” Is Otabek’s reply. “Looked it up when we arrived here.”

 

Yuri hums in response. Sightseeing had never really interested him. He was here for the Grand Prix and the Grand Prix only; if he had the time and the energy, perhaps he would’ve tagged along with Yakov and Lilia for a while. Alas, such amounts of energy never arrived, and here he was, Otabek Altin his new (and perhaps only) friend and the newfound desire to find out about this place that caught the Kazakh’s skater attention. 

 

Otabek stops in front of this tiny place in the middle of the bustling street. There are Christmas lights hanging on the windowsills and tables made for two and three accompanied by the glow of candlelight outside. The door is open and the smell that wafts from the inside is delicious, even though Yuri cannot name it (can you blame him for not knowing the names of any kind of dessert? No. No you can’t). They’re lead by a charming, petite woman to a table close to the windows.

 

Once settled in their chairs; a plate of torrijas between them, a hot chocolate for Yuri and a cappuccino for Otabek in both their hands, the absolute best part of Yuri’s night begins.

 

“So,” Otabek begins, elbows on the table and head resting between his palms. “I want to know more about you, now that we’re friends.”

 

It’s funny. Yuri had once heard Victor say almost the exact same thing to him when they first met. Only, he’d had the creepiest smile on his face, a glint to his eyes that Yuri decidedly and immediately hated and did not accept a ‘fuck off’ for an answer. Yuri kicked him, Victor went to Yakov and whined his disgusting guts out, and the blonde never got an ounce of rest from the silver haired man ever again. He’d wanted him as a mentor (role Victor sometimes slipped into. Now, as Yuuri’s coach, he seemed more prone and willing to help Yuri as well), not as the annoying voice next to his ear every morning in the rink.

 

In contrast, Otabek is firm and steadfast and a solid rock against the powerful waves of the ocean. A little soft around the edges, too. He does not probe and poke or try to tear the answers out of Yuri with pathetic excuses.

 

He decides that he likes Otabek.

 

“Tigers—” Yuri blurts out, stopping mid sentence to rearrange his thoughts. He could’ve managed something better. “I like tigers. And skating. But you already knew that? Oh, piroshky; I _really_ like them. My grandpa makes the best but katsudon comes a close second. And I don’t actually hate Victor, it’s just—”

 

He’s babbling.

 

And Otabek is laughing quietly, eyes filled with mirth and a silly smile just barely on his lips.

 

“Don’t worry. Go on,”

 

So Yuri does.

 

Otabek listens to him ramble about tigers, because his knowledge about them is _vast_ and he does not judge Yuri and only _listens_ ; quietly, the fondest look on his face encouraging Yuri to keep talking, blabbering about the things he likes and the things he doesn’t like.

 

He talks about Yakov and how he thinks he’s being subtle but he’s _not_. Yuri claims there are lingering feelings for Lilia coating his coach’s words when they dine together back home. The ballerina, turns out, is a huge tease and likes to toy with Yakov, constantly reprimanding him with a coy tilt to her mouth. However, Yuri also tells his friend about her probably liking Yakov still, too.

 

_Old people_ , he calls them, rolling his eyes.

 

(Otabek, of course, notices that despite everything, Yuri cares deeply about them)

 

He talks about his grandpa’s piroshky and how Otabek _needs_ to try them. “I’m going to take you to his house. He’ll make them for us and you’ll love them.”

 

He’s excited and giddy and feels like a _teenager_. Not the heir to Victor Nikiforov’s legacy. Not a prodigy child with a weigh to heavy on his shoulders. He’s not Yakov’s student, or Lilia’s promising _prima_.

 

He’s just Yuri Plisetsky, a child that’s been far too focused on skating and gold medals and proving himself to others when he’s supposed to do it for _himself_ to actually enjoy the perks and downsides of being a teenager.

 

After all, Yuri is only a fifteen year old.

 

Somewhere along the line he mentions Victor. And while his speech begins as an ode to his alleged hatred and _Jesus fucking Christ, that man doesn’t know when to stop, it’s annoying_ —Yuri’s eyes begin to sparkle and it’s no longer hatred but admiration; some hints here and there about him not being really bothered by the fact that Victor and Yuuri have somehow adopted him as his unofficial son.

 

The Kazakh boy doesn’t interrupt. He waits for Yuri to finish talking before adding some comments of his own, agreeing with the blonde when it turns out they both like the same things (it doesn’t happen as often, to be honest. Yuri doesn’t give a single fuck), or when he wants to complete some of his statements with experiences of his own.

 

Time flies, stops, goes back; all at the same time.

 

Yuri is enjoying himself for the first time in a while, and that makes _something_ begin to writhe and swirl in his stomach, because he’s supposed to adore skating more than anything in the word. However, somewhere along the way it became more about _winning_ and beating Victor and Katsudon than doing it out of passion and love for the sport.

 

It hurts to realize that skating had been more of a painful experience for the last two years; a race filled with obstacles towards goals that he thought would satisfy him. What _does_ he want? A gold medal? The eyes of the entire world on him?

 

No, that’s not it. What Yuri wants is something different; something that lies perhaps along the lines of _the acknowledgment of a certain someone_ —

 

He bites his lips. Otabek notices his concerns with a raised eyebrow, the perceptive bastard.

 

“By the way—why Yurio?” He inquires. It’s mostly a tactic to change the topic of whatever is going on in Yuri’s head —it’s still too early for them to plunge into deep, emotional conversations. He trusts Yuri will open up to him on his own accord—  but he’s also just honestly curious, and manages to kill two birds with the same shot. “Katsuki Yuuri’s name is pronounced slightly different? I don’t get why _you_ should be the one to have your name tampered with. It’s unnecessary.”

 

Well, Yuri hadn’t expected that.

 

“Otabek,” There is a fierce look in Yuri’s eyes; green fire that _dances_ and grows and crackles. “You just became my favorite person in the world.”

 

There’s a moment of stunned silence; words that bubble up, up, up and then die right in the tip of Otabek’s tongue. Then, he breaks in raspy, joyous laughter; so contagious it has Yuri laughing, too. Unabashed and loud and genuine; laughter he’d never thought he’d hear leaving his very own mouth.  

 

Yuri asks about Otabek’s life in return, and the skater gladly begins to tell stories of his own, about the years he spent building and destroying and building once more all of his strengths. He talks about the games he likes, and the collection of books that sits proudly on a huge shelf in his apartment. He talks about skating and tigers because he’s grown fond of the way Yuri’s face lights up when  he mentions those topics and—at some point he slips, and with cheeks just slightly red and eyes averted to the side, he not so casually mentions he would very much like to braid Yuri’s hair.

 

In return, he is called a sap and an idiot in the same sentence. A row of harshly muttered words follow, but they’re such a jumbled mess of half formed sentence that Otabek only gets a gist of it— _what the fuck, Otabek. You sound just like Mila._

 

“I might,” Yuri grumbles, trying his best to hide his voice behind his hand. “let you braid my hair some other time.”

 

Otabek only beams silently; eyes alight in their own stoic way, but Yuri understands.

 

When Yuuri and Victor come to fetch them, hands clasped firmly, they don’t find it in themselves to decline the invitation. Yuuri’s ballet instructor (She was called Minako?) and his sister walk a few paces behind them with the weirdest smiles on their faces.

 

(Yuri makes sure to show himself _super_ pissed, though. Goes as far as to pull his mouth in this uncomfortable pout that none of them buy)

 

The dinner is pleasant enough.

 

The sudden engagement announcement is not.

 

Yuri isn’t quite sure how he feels about it; voices his disgust as loudly as he can, petty as he is. Otabek supports it, though, clapping in his seat when Chulanont announces his thoughts to the crowd.

 

Of course, when the topic of last year’s banquet is brought up, Yuri _knows_ he can’t let these people get a glimpse of how much he (begrudgingly) enjoyed himself that night. In his defense, he _had_ been forced to join the dance-off, but somewhere along the way his focus strayed to the sole matter of defeating the _stupid_ Japanese skater that had just lost the Grand Prix and yet—after a couple flutes of Champaign (more like twenty something) ended up becoming a bubbly mess of smiles and great moves on the improvised dance floor.

 

(There is absolutely no need to remember the pole dancing. None at all)

 

So he grumbles and hides his phone, because he’s the one that saved the most pictures of the dance-off, and god forbid any of them find out about that. Besides, he doesn’t want to share such memories with social media addicts like Phichit and Chris.

 

Should that happen, he’d have to kill them.

 

(Not that he wouldn’t already do it given any other excuse. They are a fucking embarrassment)

 

* * *

 

 

“What. The. Fuck.”

 

He finds Victor close to the beach, gazing adoringly towards his outstretched hand, where a golden band lays proudly on his finger, and Yuri wants to barf.

 

“Victor Nikiforov is dead,” He grits out, furious. “ _And_ —not all skaters look up to you, old man.”

 

It’s probably a petty, unnecessary jab. Yuri knows it, but he also can’t help it. He _does_ look up to Victor to some degree. Yuuri is a better role model.

 

_Does this mean you’re for good?_ He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t bring himself to muster those words out loud. He only stares, eyes dangerously alight with a seriousness that’s not quite characteristic of him. _Does this mean Yuuri is leaving the ice with you?_

 

(He’s not. Victor Nikiforov. Is. Not. Retiring)

 

“I’ll win a gold medal to prove how incompetent the owner of the matching piece is,”

 

_That_ sparks something in Victor; who’s quick to rush forward and apply a deadly grip on Yuri’s jaw. There is venom in eyes that are usually calm; eyes that are sometimes too bright for him to bear, that sparkle when he tries something tasty and are just so full of love when close to Katsudon ( _ugh_ ). Icy blue eyes that now regard him with bitterness and _fear_. It is then that Yuri notices Victor’s hands are shaking, his grip slacking.

 

Victor is afraid. Afraid and way too in love with his Japanese skater.

 

Where, exactly, does that fear come from—Yuri tells himself he doesn’t want to know.

 

“This place reminds me of Hasetsu’s ocean,” Yuri says once he’s released from Victor’s deadly hands and is a good share of steps away from him.

 

It’s as much of a blessing as they’re going to get.

 

* * *

 

 

Looking back, Yuri doesn’t really remember much about his performance on the short program. He recalls stepping on the ice ready to slay and the back of his mind always going back to Katsudon’s performance and a _tsk_ leaving his mouth.

 

After that, it’s just skating; him on the ice, feet moving on their own accord. He was born to do this; to make the world bow at his feet.

 

The jumps are flawless; one arm raised for the extra points. An otherworldly performance, Lilia calls it later; proud and smiling. Yuri smiles, too.

 

The music stops and it’s only then that Yuri notices the sweat dripping down his forehead, chest heaving with the effort of breathing _in and out_. Fatigue pokes at his bones and he drags himself to the kiss and cry. He doesn’t remember what happened, only this feeling deep in his heart that it was his best _agape_ performance so far. His grandpa hadn’t been there, but Yuri knows he’s watching. He always is.

 

In the end his _agape_ had never been solely about his grandfather; it was a rather amorphous, nameless feeling meant for many people, for the time spent on the ice rink and the bruises on his legs and arms and hips that were proof of his hard work.

 

Of course, he can’t quite believe his score just broke fucking Victor Nikiforov’s world record.

 

“I did it,” He muses, and his heart stops and beats and stops again.

 

Not only did he beat stupid JJ—

 

_I beat you, Victor._

 

Even still, he doesn’t give himself permission to celebrate much. He hugs Yakov; allows him to pat him on the shoulder and tear up about his achievements so far. _I’m so proud, Yuri. So, so proud. Good job. You’re an amazing student._ The press wants to interview him. He doesn’t give a damn about them, not right now, and stomps his way towards the bleachers, jacket snug around his shoulders.

 

_I beat you. I beat you. I beat you._

“Does this mean I’m enough?” His voice is quiet; a mere whisper that dies as soon as it leaves his mouth.

 

Otabek had done great in his short program; so effortlessly good to others even though Yuri _knows_ his talent didn’t come for free. It’s raw force and bleeding feet and leaving behind one life to built himself another one from scratch. Yuri is incredibly proud to be able to call himself Otabek’s friend.

 

He doesn’t focus much on JJ’s performance, but has half the mind to feel _slightly_ bad for him. The breakdown doesn’t truly strike him as unexpected, that cocky bastard. He’s been there—at that place called overconfidence and endless smugness. To doubt oneself is only a part of growing up as a skater; what matters in the end is how you overcome those doubts. Whether you allow them to swallow you up or let them raise your game, that’s completely up to you.

 

(Words of wisdom that, surprisingly, were spoken by Victor Nikiforov sometime during Yuri’s junior days)

 

His mind wanders back to Katsuki Yuuri’s performance and hopes his endlessly rude way of behaving is enough berating to make him wake the fuck up. He’s always up for beating the shit out of his ass, but right now Katsudon most certainly needs a _real_ wake-up slap to snap him back to his senses.

 

_Now I’m going to beat you, pig. But if I’m going to do that, I need you at the top of your fucking game._

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuri’s free skate is flawless.

 

There is no denying it. Katsudon’s skating was perfect, smooth and powerful and a statement meant for the entire world. _Of course_ he lands the quadruple flip; Yuri knew he’d manage it the second the first notes of the piano struck and Yuuri’s free skate began. It is an enthralling performance and Yuri is proud of his unofficial dad. He’s been finally able to watch him skate without mistake; without stupid setbacks to hinder something beautiful and breathtaking.

 

When he breaks another of Victor’s records, Yuri ends up about to break the pen he’d been holding in his hands.

 

It only fuels his desire to smash him to bits.

 

He hadn’t been blind to the obvious fight that went between Victor and Katsudon. He didn’t miss the way they didn’t speak in hushed, loving voices, or how they didn’t hold hands _or stare at the other with their trademark, disgusting adoration_.

 

So he’s a tiny little bit happy when they make up. Those two idiots deserve a shot at happiness.

 

Victor seeking them out, _alone_ , on their way to the rink _is_ unexpected. There is this look in his face that doesn’t sit right with Yuri; an awkward, bent and most importantly _sad_ smile clad on his features as if it belonged there when it doesn’t. That is the smile Victor used to flaunt on his days before meeting Katsuki Yuuri; a faux smirk made out of fake _I’m okay’s_ and _I just need some rest_ that did nothing but irritate the young Russian skater.

 

“You’re—what? You’re going back to the ice?” Bewilderment seeps into Yakov’s voice; while deep, deep down he just _knew_ Victor would come back, the doubts would always arise. A voice in his head would crash his thoughts and morph them into something ugly and undesirable.

 

_I don’t want you to retire just yet_ are the words Yakov never allowed himself to fire at Victor.

 

(Yuri had never wanted Victor to retire, either. However, the Grand Prix made him think about a couple thins—retirement is Victor’s choice to make should that be the end to his suffering. His happiness counts just as much as Yuri’s does. Suddenly, he feels like a very mature human being)

 

But Yuri doesn’t particularly care about that anymore. Victor—he isn’t his goal.. The unreachable king is nothing but a skater at hand’s reach, for better or for worse. Victor can do whatever he wants to do.

 

No, Victor’s return to the ice doesn’t stir Yuri’s insides.

 

“Does that mean Katsudon is retiring?” Yuri’s voice is urgent, breaking mid-sentence as his eyes go from focus to horror in the span of _seconds_.

 

He feels it, then—the guilt. It’s something that coils in his stomach, uncomfortable and painful; a jab to his gut that leaves him bleeding. He’d been the one to ask not so politely for Yuuri’s retirement last year, voice brash (even though he had to stand on his tiptoes) and full of conceit. _Is it my fault?_ He’d been _so_ rude, his behavior mostly uncalled for; born from grudges and pettiness that was mostly aimed at Victor and ended up harming Yuuri, too.

_Is Yuuri retiring because of me?_

 

Desperation snakes his way into his features; trembling shoulders and a vice-like grip on Victor’s arm. Something twists in those blue eyes; an unknown, nameless thing that does nothing to quell Yuri’s churning guts.

 

_Don’t you dare do this, Katsudon._

“That’s for Yuuri to decide, once the Grand Prix is over,” Victor whispers, tremulous, smile mournful for the very first time in his fucking life. “You did great on your short program, Yurio.”

 

Then he his hugged by Victor—hugged, for Christ’s sake! They are both desperate, he realizes, and his going back to the ice has little to do with his very much rekindled love and passion towards skating. It’s for Yuuri. Everything Victor does is for Yuuri. Yes, Yuri is sure Victor missed the ice very, _very_ much; but it’s more than that.

 

Things are _never_ that simple.

 

Yuri knows Victor genuinely wants him to deliver a great performance, but he’s also aware of the bits of broken hope he’s placing on top of the blonde’s shoulders. There’s an absentminded nod, something between a sob and a scream that could’ve come from any of them, and suddenly they’re parting ways; Yuri back on track towards the rink and Victor standing frozen in the middle of the hallways, face contorted and eyes closed as he takes a deep, much needed breath.

 

“You don’t fucking get to do this, not now,” Yuri musters, fists balled at his sides. Yakov doesn’t say a single word on the way to the ice. He’s most likely still trying to grasp the idea of Victor going back to the ice. “You don’t get to retire. You don’t get to make Victor look like that, you pig. I’m going to show you, Katsuki Yuuri.”

 

Yet, when he steps on the ice, ready to picture himself shoving his skates up Katsudon’s ass, Yuri knows he won’t be able to best Yuuri’s performance. It’s a feeling that settles on his muscles, on the base of his spine. However, it’s not an uncomfortable one; just a mere knowledge that makes him huff in annoyance at no one in specific because _I know, dammit. I know_.

 

He can’t quite slip into that same persona that earned him a world record the night before. This time, his mind is most certainly _not_ about to shut up; sizzling with wildfire and torturing him with pictures of Katsudon crying on that bathroom stall, then dancing to his heart’s contents on the banquet, looking so at home lost in Victor’s eyes. He wants to puke.

 

His throat is burning, but there is no time for this. Six jumps on the second half await him, and Katsudon better be ready.

 

Otabek cheering for him from the sidelines lifts his mood considerably; Yuri flashes him a quick thumbs up and hurries to the center of the ice, focusing on his goal and that harshly yelled _Davai!_

 

Vaguely aware of it, the music begins.  

He’s memorized every single note of this piece. The music—is as much a part of his body as his skates are. Just like Lilia told him, Yuri made it a part of his very soul. Yuri skates like his life depends on it, as graceful as possible when his mind is racing, urging him forward. There are no wasted movements; a skate that somehow along the way turns into a command for Katsudon. _Look at me. Watch me win the gold medal you desire so much._ The sit spin is suddenly dizzying, but Yuri focuses on the music; on the way it rises to meet him soaring and the way it dips to meet him on the movements that send him low. _Wanted to win a gold medal and retire? We’ll see about that, Katsuki Yuuri_.

 

Breathing fails him during the second half and he misses a quad, hips burning from the pain that shoots up his body and settles as a headache. Fatigue rises, settles in his throat. But he isn’t done. Oh no he isn’t. If his performance at the Rostelcom Cup was intense then this goes beyond that; a ship that sails against unfavorable odds and lightning striking down, trying to break him. His body aches; complains against Yuri’s will when he adds a quad that wasn’t originally part of his program. However, he wills his core to work with and not against him—this is not the moment, not the time to be wavering.

 

He is Yuri Plisetsky, raised on the edge of the devil’s backbone.

 

His program is over in what feels like ages later, elbows tipped towards the ceiling and he can’t help it—tears spill hot and salty and heavy down his cheeks as he drops to his knees. Broken sobs wreck their way out of his ribcage, and he covers his face with his hands to try to get rid of the tears. Tears that aren’t only for Katsuki Yuuri ( _what if my skating wasn’t enough? What if I failed?_ ), his crying is also for himself and the atrocious mountains he’s forced himself to carry, climb and pulverize. Only to start that same process all over again.

 

The tears do not stop. They drip down the corners of his eyes; twin, crystalline trains that meet again in his jaw. He feels lost but there’s also _light_ ; a beacon shining somewhere he cannot place, a gentle hand reaching out to him.

 

It doesn’t matter whether people think his skating is enough; he doesn’t care about _being_ enough for the sake of others. His skating is his and only his, even though a part of it will always belong to his grandpa, to Yuuri and Victor and maybe, _just maybe_ , Otabek.

 

This program? It is for Katsudon to find his way back to this godforsaken planed or _so help me_ —and it is also for himself to realize that he’s been good enough all along, from his quadruple Salchow to his ballet dancing; from the sweat and blood he’s spilled, from the scars marring his knuckles to the results he can proudly brag about.

 

Something in the back on his mind is still trying to convince him otherwise; Yuri’s path will always be a tough one, but he tries his best to ignore the voice that slithers, whispering dangerous nothings in his ear. Right now, he’s just won the Grand Prix on his first run as a senior.

 

And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t rub victory in Katsudon’s face and his fiancé’s.

 

The medal ceremony is an awkward one; the attention is mostly on Katsuki Yuuri and his masterful performance on his free skate; program that got him a spot among the top three for the first time. JJ stands restless on the lowest side of the podium, looking sick and slightly displeased—good to know he’s well aware that bronze medal only hangs around his neck because of mistakes made by others, not because of his recovery on the ice.

 

(It’s not like he doesn’t completely _deserve_ the medal. JJ is a bastard. Annoying, too. But he tried his very best despite having fallen off a throne that never belonged to him in the first place. That bronze is not completely his, but whatever)

 

Yuri is still worried, though. Word has not reached him about Yuuri retiring, but there have been no whispers either about him _staying_ on the ice. Just when he’s finally made peace with fears and doubts and _dedicated_ his free skate to this stupid Japanese skater—the uncertainty makes his head spin. And let’s not mention the headache that has most certainly not disappeared. He sighs, thumbing the gold medal with careful fingers, hints and bits of a smile peeking out from the worried look on his face.

 

Katsudon looks pleased with himself, cheeks flushed red, hands clutching the silver medal with utmost adoration. Yuri can’t read his face. Not that he’s ever been good at such things, but he just wishes he could find _anything_ in Katsudon’s eyes to show Yuri he is not going to retire.

 

He’s not desperate; not anymore. Just… jittery.

 

* * *

 

 

A while after their little ‘public display of affection’ (tears are shed, smiles are shared between soft, trembling kisses and Yuri just barely manages to get the hell out), Yuuri and Victor approach him, the latter with an arm placed firmly around his fiancé’s shoulders. Yuri gapes with a single eyebrow raised and doesn’t speak. He lifts a hand to his head in order to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear until he realizes his hair is still, somehow, trapped in the braided up-do that went with his free skate.

 

“That was beautiful, Yurio!” Yuuri gushes, proceeding to describe with great detail the parts of his program he liked best, hand gestures and everything. “I kind of thought I had it, after my performance.” He smiles sheepishly. “But I did mess up my short program, so, yeah. Congratulations!”

 

The blonde huffs, turning his head away from him in a lousy attempt at annoyance.

 

“Yuuri and I are very proud of you,” Victor coos and has the _nerve_ to place his gloved hands over Yuri’s cheeks, squishing them as if he were a little kid. “You didn’t completely need me for an unforgettable debut in the senior division, did you? Ah, but now that I’m back on the ice you _do_ need to watch out. I won’t let you win at Nationals.”

 

The playful, challenging edge to Victor’s voice is blatantly ignored. Yuri grips the hem of his jacket, knuckles white.

 

“What about Katsudon?” He mutters and too late realizes his voice had been but the husk of a whisper. Yuri clears his throat, gazing intently at the subject of his fidgeting. “Are you retiring, after all?” He might’ve been a little shaky.

 

He doesn’t care.

 

“Huh?” And it’s then Katsudon’s turn to look confused, head tilted to the side, bangs falling out of place. “Ah,” A smile —soft, small— brightens the skater’s face. “No, I’m not. I’m sticking around for a while longer, so don’t get too attached to that gold medal, Yurio.”

 

Cocky, stupid, _stupid_ bastard.

 

Yuri smirks.

 

“This?” He holds the medal close to their faces, grinning that smile of his that makes Victor mad. “Oh, I’ll be keeping it. And the many others that _will_ be mine. You were not the only one to break a world record this Grand Prix, Katsuki Yuuri. ”

 

“About that,” Victor steps in. They’re all in competitive mode now—auras made out of fire and thunderstorms. “I’ll get my revenge, so don’t get too attached to those, either. That goes for you too, my beloved. Don’t think I’ll let this slip by,”

 

“I wouldn’t expect any less.”

 

Laughter erupts, then—it starts as a fit of restrained giggles that are soon to bloom into disastrous, booming laughter that has the staff and passerby skaters rushing away. It takes them a few minutes to calm down; each and every single time they’re about to stop, taking deep breaths, something else triggers laughter and they’re once more thrown back into a fit of boisterous snickering until their throats hurt.

 

“Oh, Yurio,” Yuuri pipes, wiping stray tears from his eyes. Yuri _really_ needs to do something about the nickname. The fact that he’s gotten used to it his worrying—perhaps he could use Otabek for the sole purpose of changing that. “We’re going to have dinner, after the gala. Would you like to come?”

 

“Where would we be going?” A huge plate of steaming food _does_ sound like a very tempting option. “No fast food. I did not haul my ass to Spain to eat fucking fast food.

 

“This place both Chris and Phichit recommended to us,” Victor continues, slipping his hand over Yuuri’s. Disgusting lovebirds. “You must be pretty exhausted, and food is always a great way of overcoming exhaustion.”

 

“Well,” Yuri begins, crossing his arms in front of his chest; all bravado and too-big smirks. “I have nothing else to do, so I guess I will grace you tonight with my company.”

 

They make their way out of the establishment together, Yuri a couple of steps ahead of them. Given the fact that the hotel is pretty close by, Yuuri and Victor _claim_ that they want to rest for a while before the gala exhibition (Yuri doesn’t buy it, but he also doesn’t question their intentions. Those two have officially joined Yakov in the ‘thinks-they’re-subtle-but-not-really’ club, Yuri as the president of course). On his side, Yuri wants a snack and to crash in Otabek’s room to watch movies and, well—he guesses he _could_ gift him the opportunity to comb through his hair.

 

“Katsudon,” Yuri adds, remembering something that had been bothering him. He doesn’t turn around to face them.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Is that a hickey?”

 

“Wh—Eh? What do you—” Out of the corner of his eye Yuri watches him fumble with his hands, spurting a mess of senseless words and touching touching his neck as he whips his head towards a not-ashamed Victor scratching the back of his head. “Victor!”

 

Yuri smiles and exits through the doors without another word.

 

* * *

 

 

Turns out Katsudon’s gala performance is a pair skate with Victor; all that sappy and romantic bullshit that sums up their relationship. The audience adores it, cooing and tearing up in the end, because there’s obviously nothing better than a mushier version of Victor’s _Stammi Vicino_ , all smiles and careful touches.

 

He isn’t even sure how the fuck those two pulled this off. Are they allowed to do that? Well, since it’s Victor—Yuri supposes being convincing doesn’t require that old man lifting a finger.

 

(Yuri tears up a little, too. Mila notices and files it under ‘Blackmail Material’ somewhere in the back of her mind)

 

However, Yuri decides _his_ gala performance is much better. For once, he wears tiger print that perfectly matches the black blades of his skates. He also proudly keeps the sloppy braid, courtesy of Otabek Altin, a sort of blushing mess of his own when he finds out.

 

(Otabek doesn’t blush much; and when he does, it’s a hint of red and pink that just barely scrape his cheeks. Yuri adores it when the red turns into carmine and the carmine makes Otabek stare at him both mad and happy at the same time)

 

The music is edgy and the choreography is the best; sick moves and step sequences to match the style of his chosen piece, much to Yakov’s dismay. The audience cheers with him, clapping and whistling and singing along. He has an amazing time on the ice, only able to contain his glee because he’s _not_ about to go through another round of teasing at Mila’s (And Sara’s. That old hag hangs around the Italian skater much more now, and _Jesus Christ_ there is no need for another couple nagging him 24/7) hands.

 

He goes off with Yuuri and Victor to have dinner in this very fancy restaurant in the downtown; the night is crisp but the sky is beautiful, so he faces the cold like a _soldier_ , wrapping the jacket tighter around his shoulders. Turns out Yuuri has a scarf in his bag, and somehow he’s acquired the habit of mothering Yuri, who’s seconds later enjoying the warmth of a pale blue scarf.

 

“What about me?” Victor whines, pouting like a little kid. “I’m cold too, Yuuri. I need to stay warm!”

 

Yuuri giggles and places a bold peck on his fiancé’s cheek, and Yuri rolls his eyes.

 

The rest of the night goes by swiftly; Yuri takes advantage of these two fools by ordering large plates that he swallows as if they were his last meal on earth; a scalding soup that warms his insides and a big plate of meat with an order of French fries. So much for not wanting to spend the night eating fast food. The dessert is magnificent, too, but suddenly, the torrijas and the hot chocolate he shared with Otabek that afternoon are simply better.

 

He eats half the cake on his own anyways.

 

“By the way,” Yuri quips, because the night cannot end like this, all peaceful, quiet moments and shit. “You guys are disgusting.”

 

( _But I really do care about your stupid asses_ is what he doesn’t say)

 

* * *

 

 

Six months later, a gold medal for the Russian Nationals and a bronze one for the Worlds, Yuri has learned to love skating the way he did when he was a little kid. There are no more _‘this is not enough’_ slipping out of his mouth—rather, he pushes himself harder knowing that he’s following a path of his own, made out of constant yelling in an ice rink in St. Petersburg, of Quadruple Salchow’s and heated exchanges in a mix of Russian and Japanese between his self-proclaimed parents.

 

He’s bound to lose his mind at some point—Yuri knows it, dreads it with every passing day. It could even make an interesting theme for the next Grand Prix; something along the lines of insanity, or perhaps the mere word _pleading._

Yuri could even fool the spectators into thinking his new programs are about some angelic bullshit when they will be, in fact, about his constant pleas to be saved from the never ending mayhem that has become of his life since Yuuri’s arrival in Russia. Victor and Yuuri use most of their precious time pair skating, giggling like the idiots they are when they fall on their asses. Yuri’s new favorite habit is sulking in a corner of the rink and is not ashamed to admit that his phone barely survives his fits of rage when he comes across Victor’s instagram profile—a Katsuki Yuuri Appreciation account.

 

Mila mentions once that Yuri isn’t actually bothered by this, smirking like the devil she is and _she’s right_. Yuuri decides that he, too, wants to be a teacher of sorts and tutors Yuri where he seems to be lacking, mostly on the ‘expressing your feelings part of the skating’. In return, Yuri teaches Yuuri some of the things Lilia taught him, and together they learn how to land the more challenging quads that Victor is still landing with ease.

 

(He teases them about it and only starts to take the training more seriously when a red faced Yuuri threatens Victor with a whispered _something_ none of them catch. As usual, Yuri wants to puke his guts out)

 

Otabek stops by every now and then, joking about moving to Russia to train under Yakov and actually considering it seconds later. Yuri couldn’t be happier about that—he needs his best, uhm, _friend_ to keep him grounded, or one of this days he’s going to snap Victor’s head off with a spoon.

 

The time Yuri spends with Otabek tend to be his way of escaping his reality back at the ice rink; incredibly fun times full of crappy movies, the books Otabek lends him from time to time, 3 AM McDonald’s cravings—and Yuri adores it.

 

“Do you want to go grab some coffee?” Otabek ventures, waiting for Yuri to finish unlacing his skates. Yakov always lets Otabek join their practices. “Maybe show me around? Convince me I should stay in St. Petersburg?”

 

There are a thousand and _one_ reasons why Otabek should stay in Russia, half of them about skating _of course_.

 

(Yuri won’t admit out loud that he is also amongst those thousand and one reasons to stay)

 

“Beka,” Yuri deadpans, bag slung over his shoulder. He begins to make his way out the ice rink without sparing another glance towards Otabek. Some of Yuuri’s growing boldness has begun to rub into him. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

 

And Otabek answers without an ounce of hesitation, “Yes, I am. Took you long enough to notice.”

 

It’s so unexpected Yuri almost chokes, stopping dead on his tracks to whip around and regret his decision of showing his flustered face to Otabek. Somehow, he manages a smile.

 

Disaster with his new family in Russia might be inevitable—embarrasing, lovesick idiots, Yakov and Lilia being so dense it’s beginning to irritate him and being _dragged_ to late night dinners with Katsudon and his fiancé… It’s not quite he wished for all those months ago, but it’s _something_.

 

But spending time with Beka will always be better.

 

“Coffee would be great,”

**Author's Note:**

> yuri and otabek have the best date ever, and proud victuri dads make yuri bring otabek to have dinner with them
> 
> (spoiler alert: they do nothing but embarrass him to no end)
> 
> well, i hope you guys liked this fic. I kinda wanted to tell the story in yuri's perspective because i love him, protect him at all costs™
> 
> i'm sorry if there are any inconsistencies, or grammar mistakes. 
> 
> the title is from a song by the civil wars.
> 
> thanks for reading<3


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